Sidenote.

I was just reading through these posts and realized that I said I felt abandoned by my husband - how rude of me to not tell you his crime. Let's see, what was it... I distinctly remember the sharp pangs of abandonment... yes, that's it. He didn't bring me a croissant. A croissant which, when he asked if I wanted it, I declined. Yes, I said it. I DIDN'T WANT IT. And he failed - failed! - to bring it to me anyway.

How dare he be so heartless.

Two Weeks.

Two weeks? Really?!

Ok, I might sound incredulous, but I've all but forgotten about cigarettes in the last couple of days. I know. This is a major shock (when I do remember) because of how painfully obsessive I was in my last quits. I may have somehow physically refrained from smoking, but mentally I was frantically planning my next smoke or kicking myself for not enjoying individual cigarettes more when I was smoking regularly. Chiding myself for taking them for granted.

Then I would start smoking again, and that first smoke - magic! But by the second, my mind had already started to wander. And so it would go, ten times a day for another couple of years: mindless smoking. Smoking out of habit. Smoking because I have to. Not paying attention or sucking the joy out of every single puff.

But now, I have to remember these things in order to think of them. My mind is elsewhere. There's still the boredom; I haven't replaced cigarettes so much as forgotten about them. I still feel not quite myself, but better. Different, perhaps - maybe I'll never be quite myself again. Maybe I never was. Or always will be, even if I'm not quite sure I feel like it. Whatever it is, there's something tangibly different about this quit.

For the first time, I want to not smoke more than I've ever wanted to smoke. Maybe in the past, I wanted to not smoke - but I still preferred being a smoker. It was fun. And then it wasn't.

Eleven Days.

How long has it been? I've almost forgotten to post here, wrapped up as I was in the whirlwind of life and the absence of smoking. I don't remember smoking anymore - I still feel the craving - but I don't remember the feeling, the smoke against lung, the smell that I thought was so delicious. Nor do I breathe that much better than I did - or maybe I've forgotten that, too.

I can't believe it's only been three days since Sunday when I threw myself on the bed and wept for hours, letting the world and the household turn on without me. Life was so unfair, I thought, and I sobbed my sobs all alone and felt very sorry for myself. Now I can't quite remember what started it - was it my husband, saying that I shouldn't say that I thought that he might not do the dishes? Did I say that? I don't think I did. But maybe he didn't say that, either. It's so hard to tell it all apart when you're in that state of complete misery and confusion and confused misery... someone's out to get you, you know that much at least. But there's still the matter of who.

The next morning, after the sobs, I felt like a new person. My cravings for cigarettes came back after a seven-day absence. But I was happy again, rational again, and I remembered that I like my husband. And the dog. (The dog was the worst.) Life has been simple since then, without the big burly men sanding the floors and causing us so much trouble, and without the stress of a five-year-old's very belated birthday party. The work I have to do seems so scanty now that the external stressors have been removed. So simple. I have so little to do now, it seems.

Other things are happening. The dog is eating a giant log for the fire. I look over and see it propped up between his paws like giant logs are the most natural things in the world for a puppy to eat. I've finished my cup of coffee for the evening. Lyra is asleep. I want my husband to come home soon.

I don't think I'll always crave a cigarette. Only eleven days, and I already forget about them so easily. But if I do, I'll wait until I'm old - very old, an age I never would have seen as a smoker - and I'll start smoking again. The grandkids, only used to their very old and very prudish grandmother, will be amused, maybe so much that they'll even buy me packs of cigarettes.

Oh, no. I've just realized that cigarettes probably won't even be legal by the time I'm that old.

Such a shame.

One Week.

I can't believe so much time has already passed.

To be honest, it's not cigarettes I want anymore, but some shred of normality. I still feel completely off-center, no longer angry but certainly not happy, and while I'm not dwelling on the desire to fill my lungs with smoke I'm still aware that something is lacking.

It can all go downhill very quickly. Last night I felt happy, having pulled off my daughter's birthday party despite having to relocate to a local venue at the last minute because of the rain. This party was a cap to a horrendous week: quitting smoking, of course, but also major home renovations and four midterm exams. Somehow it all went off without a hitch.

But so easily it tips over. I rose from the couch to stretch and felt the skin around my soul crack and burst like overripe fruit. I can think of no other way to explain this sensation. Nor do I know how to reach out for help or for comfort in moments like these, so I sat, alone, wondering what I've done to myself and how long it will be before these exotic and painful experiences pass.

That was last night. This morning was slightly better; this afternoon not so much.

I'm tired of this. But at least I can breathe.

Five Days, Seventeen Hours.

I want to scream. But not because of smoking.

We've spent the last few hours wiping dust off of every surface in our home. Books, shelves, toys, dishes... if it was exposed, it's covered in dust. Or so I thought, having just dusted the living room, Lyra's room, and the kitchen, only to open the cupboard door and find that every food item, the pots, pans, and extra dishes - everything - is covered in dust.

Damn it.

I didn't realize the price of freshly sanded floors was so high.

Moving on. In other news, I made it through a relatively uneventful day six of my new life as a non-smoker. Day six is a painful milestone: my last two quits ended miserably on day six for unknown reasons. Both mornings started out well, but by evening I was in tears and choking on a cigarette.

Didn't happen today. I keep thinking this week was a poor choice to quit, but the stress of being busy has worked to my advantage.

Five Stages of Grief: Denial.

Denial is where I've lived for the last ten years, punctuated by short trips to the surface for a quick breath of fresh air. (adjective, noun; adjective, noun; adjective, noun) For various reasons I wish I hadn't made any surface-breath trips; my journey through the last decade would have been significantly more pleasant.

The last few days have seen a significant shift of interest toward what is and is not pleasant. All of life can be divvied up this way. Also: carcinogenic and non-. Self-affirming and non-. That which is ice cream and that which is not.

I'm unhappy. At the moment, I like no one. No one is pleasant and neither am I.

I'm no longer in denial; that's the problem. Denial, if not exactly a happy place, had an air of complacency. I could have what I wanted - my addiction - while retaining the right to daydream caramel-colored thoughts of my future recovery. It was the closest thing to having my cake and eating it too, except for all of the coughing, the inability to run up stairs, and the constant stench. And the shame, if you want to throw that in, too. But the very worst part? Standing outside in the freezing wind, wanting that deep inhalation of smoke so badly but being unable to enjoy even the smallest part of that experience. Shivering, frozen fingers, wind biting into your neck or cutting through your coat. Going back inside and feeling only worse for wear. Still wanting a cigarette.

That, I think, is denial.

I don't live in denial anymore. I live in anger. If this were a permanent relocation, I would not have applied.

Four Days, Ten Hours.

Frustrated today. At the moment I couldn't care less whether I start smoking again or not, though I'm holding off on the assumption that eventually I will care, and may well be upset if I give in now. Actually, I'm not sure that's true. But I don't want to go through this pain all over again - I just need to get through. That's it.

Hunger, tiredness, and stress: the three major triggers, all of which have been hounding me today. I think my husband is done trying to help, and even though it's not his responsibility I still feel abandoned.